


The Watson Files

by KtwoNtwo



Series: 2.5 Holmes' [7]
Category: James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-04-24 07:39:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14350953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KtwoNtwo/pseuds/KtwoNtwo
Summary: You might think that MI 6 would not bother to keep a file on a mild mannered ex-army doctor with a medical discharge.  You’d be wrong.  A series of snippets (1,000 words or less) involving John H. Watson, ex RAMC which may or may not be found the above mentioned file.Prompt list derived from the John Watson’s Woes on Dreamwith (Specifically the July Writing Prompts of 2017.)  A part of the 2.5 Holmes ‘verse.





	1. Injury

It was just luck that I happened to be in the car when I got the call.  According to my on and off girlfriend Shirley, Sherlock and John had been chasing someone which had resulted in John falling or being pushed off the Westminster Bridge into the Thames.  Sherlock, of course, had gone in after him. 

Shirley directed me to the most likely place that they would come ashore and indicated that an ambulance was in route.  I got there just in time to see Sherlock, looking like a half-drowned rat, stagger out of the water dragging what had to be John.  As I headed down the steps Sherlock dropped to his knees beside John’s body and started rescue breathing. 

_Thank heavens for those mandatory first aid classes_ I thought.  Everyone who worked at the Yard, even the consultants, had to take them.  Sherlock had bitched and moaned but complied.  Those mandatory classes were usually deadly dull and full of information that the average bloke wouldn’t retain more than 5 minutes.  That would have been the case this time too but for John Watson.  Despite the fact he was a practicing MD entitled him to an exemption, he had been in the session with Sherlock, I and most of my team.  John had provided anecdotes, mnemonics and really bad puns which made the stuff a lot easier to remember.  I found myself singing _Staying Alive_ under my breath as I reached the two of them.

It wasn’t needed.  Sherlock rolled John on his side into the recovery position.  John took a deep breath then coughed and threw up.  Sherlock used his scarf, which somehow was still wrapped around his neck, to wipe John’s face one handed.  It was then I noticed that Sherlock’s other hand was pressed hard into John’s side.   

The ambulance arrived just then and I stepped back to let the professionals take over.  I marveled at the efficiency and at the fact that the paramedics hadn’t even attempted to separate the two.  It didn’t take very long before John and Sherlock were triaged, stabilized and whisked away to Hospital.

It took me a little longer.  I ended up interfacing with emergency services, the investigating officers from the local substation, and the forensics team that ended up on the bridge.  I only managed to get away by being strategically delegated to go and get a statement from Mr. Holmes.  It seems my well known status as the METs resident _Sherlock Whisperer_ was paying off in this instance at least.

The A&E was busy but upon signing in I was very quickly shunted aside to a rather concerned looking nurse whose badge read Smithfield.  She informed me that Dr. Watson was in surgery because he’d been stabbed before going into the water.  They were making sure that the knife hadn't nicked anything important. John's prognosis was good last she’d heard despite getting filthy water in the open wound.  He was most likely going to be stuck in Hospital for a couple days due to high dosage antibiotics but all and all he should be fine. 

Nurse Smithfield, however, was more concerned about Sherlock.  Apparently after a small blow up at the ambulance service personnel and a couple of scathing remarks directed at the team who had converged on Dr. Watson he’d subsided into a suspiciously quiet and cooperative state.  He’d followed instructions and answered questions with nary a deduction, _obviously_ , or _idiot_ to be had.  Smithfield, who had dealt with Sherlock previously, wanted to know if they should check for concussion or other brain injury.

I briefly wondered if everyone in the entire city thought I was an expert on Sherlock Holmes, then I realized that I probably had a decent idea what was going on.  Despite his rather vocal protestations that he was a _high functioning sociopath_ I knew that Sherlock, when he let himself care, cared deeply.  I also knew he had quite a bit of knowledge about the damage a human body could sustain before expiring, the chemical composition of the Thames, and the dangers of hypothermia along with other bits of esoteric information stored in his extensive mind palace.  Couple that knowledge with his deductive reasoning and ability to read people meant that he most likely had run through a number scenarios regarding John’s condition, each one more dire than the last.  Patient confidentiality would preclude him from getting any real facts so he’d emotionally shut down to avoid dealing with the possibility of John’s permanent incapacitation or death. 

I knew I was going to be in for a long night as I asked Nurse Smithfield to take me to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse imagined Sherlock pulling John out at RAF memorial across the river from the London Eye. That puts St. Thomas as the closest hospital.
> 
> This list was part of the 2017 July Writing Prompts at John Watson’s Woe’s on Dreamwidth. The original prompt was as follows: Watson injury (any severity), from a different POV than Holmes (meaning Mrs. Hudson, Scotland Yard, Baker Street Irregular, The Villain (whoever he/she may be), etc.


	2. Summertime

I never really understood the concept of _the dog days of summer_ until I saw Gladstone stretched on his back, paws splayed out sleeping with Sherlock snoozing in a nearly identical position on the sofa wearing a slightly damp sheet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read the prompt and this occurred fully formed; nothing more, nothing less. Original Prompt: Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight. Your prompt for today is: Summer in the city.


	3. Overheard

It was a relatively calm morning in Q branch.  I was doing the monthly update to the MI 6 E-mail blacklist filter.  While the blacklist itself was mostly automated these days, thank you Q, we did run a filtering algorithm on the stuff that was segregated to keep track of who was attempting to do what to whom in the wider cyber world.  One of the side effects of being a quasi-secret government agency with top notch security was that everyone and their brother with any aspirations attempted at one point or another to get into our business.  A large amount of the low level attacks started out as embedded e-mail attachments and keeping track of them often gave us valuable information on the perpetrators.  Unfortunately the landscape and sophistication of such attacks changed rather frequently which required tweaking the algorithm to segregate the unique and useful from the mundane and mass produced.  It was a fiddly job with some minor tricky bits, not at all my favorite bit of programing but it was why I happened to be at my station when Mycroft Holmes walked into the branch.

I watched a couple of my co-workers discretely exit the room and a couple more suddenly sprout headphones.  I then realized that I had nothing similar within arm’s reach.  Rats, I thought to myself as I realized that I was going to inevitably overhear whatever had brought the man, commonly referred to as _The Iceman_ by both the diplomatic and espionage communities, to consult with his brother, my boss, Q.  While my security clearance was quite high the level upon which these two moved was a bit above my pay grade. 

“Q,” Mr. Holmes said before moving up onto the platform containing the Quartermaster’s stand up workstation which overlooked the main branch workroom.

“Mr. Holmes,” Q replied in a similar tone as if he was talking to any high ranking official who just happened to drop into the branch.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Holmes place a large yellow mailing envelope on the corner of the Quartermaster’s desk.  I continued watching the reflection in my secondary computer screen to determine whether Mr. Holmes was leaving or staying and ended up catching the most interesting display of non-verbal communication.

Mr. Holmes nodded at the envelope.  Q in return looked at it and raised his eyebrows. Mr. Holmes seemed to slump momentarily which resulted in Q giving his keyboard a caress in the manner one would pet a cat. 

I knew that move.  It was one that Q would do often with M just before he asked if there was a time limit on some directive or another.

Mr. Holmes remained still for a bit.  I couldn’t see his face and his body language was not giving anything away either.  Q must have seen something though because after 30 seconds or so he laced his hands together, index fingers extended and rested his chin on the tips momentarily. 

Again I couldn’t see Mr. Holmes response, if there was any. 

Q glanced around the bullpen and I made sure to look engrossed in my coding.  A moment after I heard Mr. Holmes clear his throat.  I once again angled my head so I could see the reaction. 

Q smiled slightly and tapped the envelope once receiving a slight nod in response.  With that, Mr. Holmes turned and strolled out of the branch.

I stopped what I was doing and composed a quick e-mail.  A direct request from the man also known as _The British Government_ for Q’s assistance meant that we’d all need to take up the slack a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Prompt: Overheard. Eavesdropping and its possible consequences (be it misunderstandings, hurt and anger, something awkward taken totally out of context, whatever). If you didn’t catch it this is from the POV of Spider, one of the Q branch minions. If you want Q’s POV of this conversation you’ll need to keep an eye out for History Lesson, Chapter 3 (It’s not posted quite yet but will be soon).


	4. Disguise

The computer beeped at me with the tone that indicated an interoffice communication. It seemed that my presence was requested in Q branch although not STAT given the form and the wording of the missive.  I headed out from the small office in MI 6 medical thinking that it was just one more item in what had already been a strange day, even for me.

The day had started with a completely out of the blue kidnapping attempt.  I say kidnapping but it was more a _grab Sherlock and kill or incapacitate me_ attempt.  We had just finished up the paperwork at the Yard for a case involving stale biscuits, waterfowl and gem smuggling when Sherlock noticed we were being tailed.  Due in large part to Sherlock’s encyclopedic knowledge of London and a shortcut through a tube station; we managed to get a good number of our pursuers into the hands of the transport police and most likely from there to the security services as potential terrorists. 

That little escapade was immediately followed by a consultation with Molly at the morgue regarding the identity of several bodies.  The four bodies involved were in somewhat bad shape since they’d managed to get themselves blown up in an empty NSY safe house.  Molly had been attempting to determine if an IED was involved due to the amount of plastic and metal shrapnel.  For a change she was more interested in my Afghan experience than in Sherlock’s deductive prowess. 

On the way back to Baker Street in a cab Sherlock took a call from Mycroft that was notable in that there were no sarcastic remarks or attempted one-upmanship from Sherlock’s side of the conversation.  The fact that he’d answered rather than texting was strange in and of itself.  In addition, I wouldn’t have even known the caller was Mycroft but for the fact that Sherlock had grimaced and told me so before answering.  Whatever his brother had told him sent Sherlock into a texting frenzy for the remainder of the ride. 

I hadn’t expected an explanation until we were back in the flat but we’d barely hung up our coats when Sherlock received a text from Lestrade and I got one from MI 6 medical.  Lestrade wanted assistance in identifying Molly’s bodies and MI 6 wanted me to fill in a half-shift for a doctor with a sudden family emergency. 

Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom muttering something about needing to check in with his homeless network on the way to the Yard.  I took the time to stuff a variety of items into a rucksack just in case I managed to get off in time to accompany him.  By the time I needed to leave Sherlock had not reappeared so I just hollered at him and headed out almost running over Billy Wiggins in the process of getting out the front door.

MI 6 seemed tense.  I’d been working locum for them long enough to assess the zeitgeist of the office.  It appeared to be at the _mission in process of going sideways_ as opposed to _everything going to hell in a handbasket_.  Medical at least was calm.  There were no currently admitted agents and it looked like there hadn’t been anything more serious than training bruises and a minor burn from one of the coffee makers for seventy two hours or so.  I hadn’t even wanted to speculate what either of those facts coupled with the overall mood portended for my shift. 

I’d barely managed to review the logs when the summons from Q branch occurred.  It didn’t take me long to get into the depths of the building.  I was expecting that I was needed to consult on a field medical issue.  I didn’t expect to be shoved into one of the smaller operations rooms with R, Tanner and 006 with what appeared to be freshly dyed blond hair.  That last caused a double take on my part but I didn’t ask.

“Come here John,” R said.  “I need your expert opinion on this.”

She motioned at a monitor showing a street scene that looked a bit like London.

“What do you need?” I asked.

She pointed at a figure weaving in and out of the pedestrians on the pavement.

“Is that yours or ours?”

I could see her confusion.  If I hadn’t know him as well as I did I would have had a hard time telling that the person she was pointing at was Sherlock as opposed to his younger half-brother.  The disguise was masterful right down to the mannerisms and style of walk.  The extra two inches of height and slightly darker hair gave things away for me as did the jumper that he’d clearly stolen from my closet. 

“Mine,” I replied.

“You have your assignment 006,” Tanner remarked.

“Loose tail but don’t make contact,” Alec Trevelyan responded with a smile.  “Grab anyone who is doing the same thing.”

“And hope he doesn’t attempt to lose you,” R added.

“Roger,” Trevelyan acknowledged and left.

“Thank you very much for your assistance Dr. Watson,” Tanner added before the door had closed behind him.

I knew a dismissal when I heard one so I departed heading back for medical.  I also knew better than to ask why exactly Sherlock was gallivanting around London in disguise pretending to be his brother playing bait with at least one 00 as a bodyguard.  I knew I’d be able to get the whole story out of Sherlock later.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  Original Prompt - To the Makeup Table! Focus on Holmes and/or Watson in disguise – for a case, or for any other reason.  If you didn’t catch this we are right back into the “Find/Protect the asset” arc.


	5. Note To Self

Fact:  Medical pump not responding, maximum dosage dispensed. 

Choice:  Control pain or control mind? 

Analysis:  Cover status unknown, Moran location unknown, Moran ability to breach Mycroft’s security 43%. 

Available assets:  Agents in area, firearm in bed frame, knife in closet, medical equipment, room contents. 

Conclusion:  Ability to move paramount, control pain, endure hallucinations.

The music oh so helpfully dredged up from my mind palace was from that pub in Norway where I’d tended bar for several weeks.  It was an eclectic range of genres ranging from punk rock to folk and seemingly everything in between.  Net result had been a significant expansion in my knowledge of the popular music soundscape.  Every other piece in my hallucination seemed to be by a specific Irish rock band.  Musically this was not terribly problematic.  In fact, I’d already flagged some of the tunes for violin adaptation.  The lyrics however were promotive of reflection and that was, as John would say, a bit not good.

_…See the stone set in your eyes, see the thorn twist in your side…_

John Watson as I’d seen him in a picture, exiting a pub after a late lunch.  He’d looked worn and almost in pain, clearly unhappy. 

… _Sleight of hand and twist of fate, on a bed of nails she makes me wait…_

Oh John.  I’d hurt you badly with my clever scheming.  No way to bring you into the secret without jeopardizing your very existence.  I’d provided hints but it appeared that the only thing I’d accomplished was to make you wait in emotional agony. 

_…Through the storm we reach the shore, you give it all but I want more…_

John behind me, in front of me, at my side; running, fighting, pulling me out of harm’s way, trying not to giggle inappropriately afterwards.  John’s fist connecting with the superintendent’s chin.  John and I escaping, handcuffed together.  John bewildered on the pavement looking up at me standing on the roof.

_…My hands are tied, my body bruised…nothing to win and nothing left to lose…_

Pain, cold, dark, then questions, always the same questions; who and what with the occasional when and where.  Don’t talk, don’t say; three lives depend on it; one life in particular.  Even if I don’t make it out John will survive.

_…And you give yourself away…_

John, at the clinic, in the A&E giving care to others taking little comfort for himself.  What happens when that strength runs out and there is nothing left to give? 

_…With or without you…_

I will go on regardless; finish the job, complete the mission.  It doesn’t matter if he turns away or toward me; as long as he lives so do I.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Prompt:  Note to Self:  Anything from a pencil jot on a paper cuff or a string on a finger to a modern sticky note or a cell phone alarm.  Doesn't matter who the writer is, so long as there's something he/she needs a reminder for.  This little bit of angst is courtesy of a U2 song colliding with a prompt.  Occurring toward the end of the hiatus when only Moran remains at the head of a much reduced organization, my muse turned what was meant to be a written reminder into a musical one. 


	6. Poetry

As A&E shifts went it hadn’t been bad, just long.  I was a bit tired and looking forward to nothing more stimulating than tea, take away and tele, not necessarily in that order.  What I found when I arrived in the flat was a mess of crumpled paper around the desk and Sherlock prostrate on the sofa.  He didn’t twitch when I entered so I assumed he was deep in his mind palace.  Good, that gave me a chance to clean up without having to worry about him suddenly deciding that he needed to rescue what I’d put in the bin.

The mess wasn’t as bad as it looked.  Sherlock had managed to get at least three-quarters of the crumpled paper into the trash receptacle, which was a significantly higher percentage than normal.  I took a quick look at the remainder as I picked it up just in case there was something important like the power bill in the mess.  I discovered that most of the papers were covered with Sherlock’s distinctive scrawl in a mish-mash of jotted down numbers, lists of words, a phrase or two, the occasional doodle as well as a couple of half-finished sketches.  Once they were all collected I looked around and spotted a lone piece of paper which had managed to find its way half under the desk drawers.  It proved to be the most interesting one of the lot.  Barely crumpled it contained what looked to be a completed poem.

Curious, I read it once, twice and then a third time.  I wasn’t quite sure I understood but behind me the author stirred out of his self-imposed trance.  I decided to ask.

“So what’s all this?” I indicated the now overflowing bin and waggled the paper I had in my hand.

“Deletion,” Sherlock replied.

“Deletion?” I echoed, “With foolscap and poetry?  I thought your mind palace was just that, all in your head.”

Sherlock waived a hand languidly, “Occasionally there is detritus that resists the normal deletion process and requires a bit more tactile approach.”

“This doesn’t look like random debris.  It’s a full-fledged poem,” I waived the paper at him.

“Used for rather recalcitrant concepts or information; I find the structure organizes things enough for my normal methods to process.”  He half frowned at my apparent noncomprehension and added, “The amount of resistance to deletion is directly proportional the level of poetic structure necessary to excise it.”

“So this was particularly tricky then?”

“Yep,” Sherlock sat up, “A villanelle is not normally required.”

 I thought I understood, “So I’m assuming that the Northern Italian place is not worth our patronage again?”

 “Not at all,” Sherlock replied with a hint of a smile, “It just means we don’t drink two and a half bottles of wine with dinner.”

****The Poem****

Blame it on an excess of Chianti.  
An extremely vivid dream,  
About a Victorian vigilante.

It greatly upset my repose,  
Reality in truth did it seem,  
A fault of the Chianti?

A detective in dandy clothes,  
Working in the age of steam,  
Outside the law, a vigilante.

Deadly plots he does expose.  
From faint clues deductions gleam.  
Not blood, only spilled Chianti.

How dost end this tale of woes?  
With suicide; a woman’s scream?  
In death for the vigilante?

That must be yet left to compose,  
Continuing the remembered theme,  
Six courses and, of course, Chianti,  
Conspiring revenge upon the vigilante.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Prompt: A character writes poetry. It doesn't have to be good poetry.


	7. Midnight Summons

For a moment I thought…but no it was only my mobile rousing me out of the first sound sleep I’d had in a long time.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Watson.” It wasn’t a question.

The female voice continued, “You would remember me as,” there was a slight pause, “Anthea.”

Crap.  What the heck was Mycroft Homes’ PA doing calling me at, I glanced at the clock, 0 dark 30.

“Yes?”

“I need your assistance.”

I wondered what Mycroft wanted of me but I didn’t ask.  Better to let her spell it out.

“Mr. Holmes is inbound on military transport.  He’s been shot and to all reports is being recalcitrant about receiving medical assistance.”

“And you are calling me because?  I mean the last time we spoke I almost punched him.”

“He would have let you,” she informed me bluntly then continued, “You are the only person I know that has a chance to make him sit still for treatment and agree to follow medical advice.”

I sighed.

“I’ll be ready in five and there better be coffee.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see this as occurring near the end of the Hiatus. In my head canon Mycroft had to do quite a bit in the field toward the end not only to get Sherlock out of Serbia but also to set things up. Original Prompt - Witching Hour. Your prompt for today is: midnight summons.


	8. Expertise

“I don’t know just what you’ll think you’ll get from the victims flat but here we are,” Lestrade said as he turned the key in the lock.

“Why exactly are we here Sherlock?” John asked.

“Because she didn’t drink the poisoned tea”

“But she spilled half a cup when she went down,” Lestrade said from the doorway as they entered the flat.

“You see but you don’t observe,” Sherlock said. “It’s obvious she didn’t drink the tea because...”

“She was American!” Sally chimed in

Everyone turned to look at Donovan. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“Look at this place,” Sally gestured. “Sewing machine, pieces of fabric, cutting mat, rotary cutter, she was a quilter; that’s a distinctive American art form.”

Sherlock looked intrigued, “Why not someone who just took up the hobby?”

“Scrap quilter.”

“What?” Lestrade’s voice was confused.

“American Quilting started as a way to use up extra material left over from making clothing usually on the frontier. The traditional patterns were designed to look good with a variety of fabrics in small pieces. Most people taking up the hobby just go and buy material, this is all scraps.”

John could see Sherlock integrating the new information as he looked around the flat.

Meanwhile Lestrade asked, “And you know this how?”

“Second cousin in the States took up the hobby. Absolutely bonkers about it.”

Sherlock was looking puzzled as he walked about examining things.

“Poisoning over time,” he muttered, “delivery method…mhmmm”

Sally was looking at the sewing implements and then suddenly said, “Pins!

Sherlock came over and stood at her elbow.  “Contact poison?”

“Ingested,” she replied.  “Sewers tend to hold pins in their mouths when they get going.”

“Ah!” Sherlock turned to Lestrade, “Once the toxicology report comes back arrest the sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Prompt = Everyone Loves Sharing Their Expertise. All of us have something we've learned about or practiced a great deal. Whether it's knitting, or horseback-riding, or a particular performing group, use one of your own hobbies or interests as the inspiration for today's work.


	9. Hidden Talent

Q and his brother looked up with identical expressions of annoyance at the man who had walked into Q-Branch holding R hostage with a gun. He only made it half way across the room when Q pulled out a rather large handgun from his desk drawer and shot him causing the intruder to drop his gun, release R and end up on the floor curled around his now shattered arm. 

Dr. Watson who had been observing the two genius’ work walked over to the injured man while commenting to the room at large, “It’s rather stupid to assume that the folks who hand out the guns to the agents don’t know how to use them effectively.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 3 sentence fiction for this one. Original prompt: I Never Get Your Limits. A character's hidden talent saves the day. The talent, and the character, is up to you, as well as what constitutes 'saves the day'.


End file.
